Sweet Karoline (19 page)

"
This is Melody Fischer," Miriam says. "She's a retired registered nurse. Melody, this is my sister Anne."

"
Retired?" I ask. "You must be older than you look."

Her
face is unlined, a smooth dark chocolate complexion that makes her appear to be in her forties.

"
I'm sixty-eight. Fat is a great wrinkle filler."

She
gives a deep-voiced chuckle, a pleasant sound that makes me want to laugh along with her. Miriam and I just smile.

"
You two must be the missing Johnston twins," she continues. "I'll never be able to tell you apart."

"
I never wear green," Miriam quips, pointing to my t-shirt.

This
time we all chuckle.

"
Come on into the kitchen, Melody," Miriam says. "We can have tea while we talk. Or coffee if you'd rather."

"
Tea is perfect. And please call me Dee. I hate to sound like a song or something. Thanks to my parents for being whimsical, but I never did like my name."

"
Oh, I love it," Miriam says. "Imagine being named after a figure in the Bible, like I was. So boring."

"
At least she was one of the more exotic Biblical characters, though. Lots more interesting than Anne. Now that name is boring. I always wanted to be a Melody or a Christina or something."

We
continue the idle chatter until all three of us are gathered around the table with tea things.

Miriam
and I have not discussed the interview, but though I have been through hundreds of them with scriptwriters, directors or even actors, I know this is closer to Miriam's field. She immediately senses that I want her to take the lead.

"
You know a lot about us, Dee."

I
think it's a brilliant prompt.

"
I do know some, yes. I've met Libby and Dembi, along with Larue many years ago. I just learned about the two of you recently."

It
's an odd feeling, realizing that not only is she our one and only candidate, but that Dee also knows more about us than we do. Certainly more than we know about her. Once again Miriam is brilliant as well as a mind reader.

"
Tell us a little about yourself, then, Dee."

"
I was born in Nova Scotia, so I'm not considered native to Burford, even though I've been here forty years. That's a small town for you." Again, that throaty laugh makes us grin at her. "I met my husband in Toronto when we were both at a medical conference. He's a doctor. He swept this big body off its feet and I followed him to Burford without a question. I have a happy marriage, three grown children and five grandchildren. I had a great career. I nursed mostly in Brantford, but worked in my husband's office in Burford for many years, too. When I decided to retire I thought I'd spend most of the time visiting the kids and grandkids, but they have their own lives. So I started to get bored. Tommy—my husband—is supposed to be retired, too, but recently he took a job with the local jail and he's been there constantly. So I joined the agency. I can pick and choose my jobs."

"
You're a doctor's wife and you need to work?" Once again, my mouth runs away from me, inserting snobbish L.A. stereotypes into rural Burford.

Melody
is unabashed. "I don't need to work, dear. I'm bored and I want to work. As I said, I have control over what I do and how often. I picked this one, to be perfectly honest, even though it's full time, because I care about Libby and have an historical interest in Vryheid."

I
can't help myself. I get off track right away. This version of Anne is not very patient or prudent. Or perhaps it's Old Anne making it all about her.

"
So you were in the area when Vryheid burned down? Why weren't you afraid to come out here?"

Miriam
glares at me and so she should, but Dee laughs.

"
Indeed I was here when it happened. I do not believe in witches nor do I believe in haunting. This area is filled with very superstitious people, but I wasn't born here, so I think that's why I'm different. I don't listen to gossip nor do I spread it. And because I was the town doctor's wife, most people respected that and didn't try to change my mind."

"
Would you tell us what you know about that fire? Miriam and I are kind of freaked out about it. The agency told us no one but you would come out here."

Now
I am not only rudely asking her to break her rules and gossip, but I have also told her she's the only candidate. This time, however, Miriam doesn't look angry. She's as thirsty for information as I am.

Dee
sips her tea and leans back a little in the chair. The woman already looks at home. I immediately envision her as the perfect nursemaid for Memé. I can imagine her handling Memé's outbursts, settling the poor thing down, soothing her mean spirit. Being truthful with her rather than too soft, as Miriam is. As the stew bubbles and the television blares from the family room, we listen to an odd tale that occasionally shoots embers of familiarity and fear along my skin. It's a horror story I've been told and then forgotten.

"
The Johnston family, and I apologize for saying this because I know they are kin, were alcoholics. With that addiction came irresponsibility, carelessness, even violence. They straddled two sides of this community, being a mix of black and native, but they were eventually shunned by both. They grew up during the Depression, poor and ignored, especially in Vryheid. Seems most of the world passed this little area by, worried about its own troubles. Didn't pay a lick of attention to us blacks and natives.

"
The only people who came out here by the end of the '70's were losers and boozers. Sometimes the cops were called in, sometimes the Children's Aid. The poor kids who were born here—your mama being one of them—were frequently abused. I think Elizabeth—everyone called her Libby—from what I've heard she got the worst of it. She was a great beauty. Obviously, she passed that on to the three of you. But the men couldn't keep their hands off her.

"
I didn't see much of her until Larue came along in the late 40's. He was a very nice man. Libby had apparently given away all of her children, or was forced to when she was younger. Once Larue got here, some of the kinder talk was that she was really loved for the first time. Others, of course, made fun of him because he was French and not terribly smart. But he worked hard around this place, fixed it up, built that big porch out front, for instance. The mean gossip was that he was a cousin. That Libby's family just couldn't leave her alone. I don't know where any of the information about Larue came from, since he never talked about himself that I know of."

For
someone who professes not to listen to or spread gossip, you certainly have a lot of inside knowledge, Melo-dee dear
, Uncharitable Anne thinks.

"
When Libby got pregnant, she was once again the talk of the town. You'd think people had nothing else to do. I was privy to some information, since Tommy was her doctor. She wanted to deliver at home, with a midwife. Maybe because lots of her babies had been taken directly from the hospital with her parents' consent, not hers, and she was afraid the same thing would happen.

"
In the middle of the night of February 21, 1950, Tommy got an emergency call from the midwife. It had snowed the previous day so it took him a long time to get out here. The roads were so treacherous. By the time he arrived, you two girls had been delivered. Poor Dembi was tangled in the umbilical cord and had already turned blue. Tommy was able to save him, but just barely. The rumor mill always claims he's slow because his parents were cousins, but I know the truth.

"
Something happened to Libby that night. She was never the same afterward. She had to be hospitalized, lost a lot of blood, and underwent surgery to remove her uterus. Dembi was kept in hospital with his mother because he needed a lot of care, but you girls stayed home with Larue. I don't know exactly what happened, but very soon, there was only one daughter left."

I
look over at Miriam, surprised to see tears rolling down her cheeks.

"
My mom and dad—the ones who adopted me—said I was three weeks old when they got me."

"
Sounds about right." Dee pats and squeezes Miriam's hand in a motherly, comforting way. I get her a tissue.

"
No one seemed to know why he gave you away. Maybe Larue couldn't handle two babies. Maybe someone suggested that three would be too many once Libby got home."

Miriam
cries quietly. I imagine what she is thinking. Why her? Why did they give her away? Why not me? Why not place Dembi in a home or an institution and keep the two of us? Of course, Miriam is too nice to think of that last one; that thought is all mine.

"
Did your adoptive parents tell you that they visited here quite often?"

Miriam
almost snorts, so surprised is she in the midst of her tears. "Really?"

Dee
nods. "Yup. For about four years. They usually brought you over to see Tommy while they were here. I think they were real cousins of Libby's. Personally, I'm surprised that Larue let you go. But the way Libby was after she got home with Dembi, I suppose it was the right decision."

"
I had a wonderful upbringing," Miriam concedes. "I do have some memories, very, very faint ones. No wonder this farm felt so comfortable when I arrived. The front of the house, the kitchen—they both felt eerily familiar. I have impressions of little friends that I'd loved to play with. Now I think those friends were Anne and Dembi. I always figured I was odd. Not quite whole. I know everyone goes through that, but I seemed to have it worse than others. Now I know why."

Miriam
looks at me and smiles. Her eyes are tender.

I
want to screech, what about me? When did they give me away? Why can't I remember any of this? Why does this farm feel anything but comfortable to me? Is Miriam's melodramatic 'not quite whole' the same as my apparent quest for a trio? Why don't I have any faint memories at all?

In
my head I show up as the daughter of Vera and Ian, sister to Elizabeth, fully formed. Talking, remembering. Vera even had baby pictures of me. Did she steal them from Memé?

Fortunately
our brother interrupts my inner turmoil when he comes into the kitchen to ask for more stew. Wiping her eyes, Miriam immediately spoons some into a bowl for him. Dembi looks at her closely, noticing her distress. The television must be fascinating, for he simply pats her arm, grabs his meal and disappears again.

Dee
continues as though there has been no interruption. "Then came the fire and that changed everything around here. It was April 11, 1954, and conditions were fairly good around here. Tobacco farming was reaching its peak. The public didn't yet know that smoking was hazardous to our health, even though the medical community had suspected for some time. Tobacco farmers were getting rich, including the Johnstons. They added to the farmhouse, spruced up Vryheid, and…"

"
They spruced up Vryheid?" Miriam interrupts.

I
remember with a jolt that I haven't shared the deed with my sister.

Dee,
however, has all that information, too. "Oh yes, dear, didn't you know? The acres around and including Vryheid were bequeathed to the Johnston family around the time of Joseph Brant. They sold off a lot of it, during the thirties and forties, but my understanding is that everything belongs to—well, to Libby now, I suppose."

Miriam
squeaks.

"
But the fire…" I prompt. We can get into the deed later. Get to the damn fire.

"
The fire burned down the entire village. A couple of the Johnston boys died. I have a feeling there was some kind of still there, because from one small match there was a huge blast. Before any fire trucks could arrive, all the old wooden homes were just sticks. And it seemed that before the smoke even died away, the rumors about the witch were flying everywhere."

Dear Diary,

Do
you think evil is the opposite of good? Or the absence of good? Do you think it's a conscious and deliberate wrongdoing? Or do you think people are just born without a conscience and do bad things because the devil makes them do it? It's a very interesting debate. Too bad you can't talk.

Chapter
18

"This is all so strange," Miriam says. "I can't take it all in."

"
Why on earth would they think a witch was responsible?" I ask, trying to keep everyone on track.

Dee
pours us more tea, completely at home now. In her element. Memé hasn't interrupted once. Dembi is obviously absorbed in the television. Miriam is spellbound and I am antsy.

"
Well, I think it goes back to the native legends and our own black history. We were a superstitious lot to begin with. Add the native stories and you have a hodgepodge of beliefs and tales and exaggerations and outright lies. Most of the legends were designed to be warnings. You know the sort of thing; don't step on a crack, you'll break your mother's back. The Johnston family, because of their isolation, the exotic history of Vryheid and its connection to Joseph Brant…well, they were ripe for not only gossip but legendary status, too."

As
though she has read my mind, Memé starts a loud wail from the bedroom. Miriam asks Dee if she'd like to see her potential patient.

"
The agency told me you and your husband used to visit fairly often, but I gather you haven't seen our mother for a few weeks. I'm afraid you'll see a terrible change."

Dee
squeezes my sister's hand. "I'm used to what this horrid disease can do."

"
I'll check on Dembi," I offer. I can't face Memé right now.

Dembi
is perched on the edge of the sofa. Rolly is tucked in beside my brother and raises his sleepy head to yawn at me. Dembi, however, doesn't look at me. His eyes are glued to a program that looks like a western. At first I don't notice that the cowboys are vampires or zombies or something until they begin to rip off heads and toss the bodies in the air.

"
Dembi." I force a gentle tone. Avoid admonishment. "Don't you think this is a bit scary? It might give you nightmares."

Dembi
turns his clear, gorgeous eyes to stare at me. He has no guile, no depth, in those eyes. His thoughts are transparent. It's refreshing to be in the presence of someone with no hidden agenda. I sit beside him and impulsively, tenderly, take his hand. Rolly gives a grumpy mew at having to move over.

"
It's okay, Anne," Dembi says, patting my hand in response, soothing me. "It's not real. It's all on TV." He points as though to prove his assertion that the zombie-vampire-cowboys are not here in the room with us, but locked up in a moving box.

I
smile back at him. Let him know I'm relieved. "Okay. But if you get scared…"

"
I won't." He slips his hand from under mine, mesmerized once again by flying objects and headless walking dead.

Miriam
and Dee are gone a long time. I have time to clean up the kitchen, where I find a very expensive bottle of scotch under the cupboard near the stove. I pour myself a hefty helping. Stir the stew, munch on a hunk of soft yet crunchy bread heaped with butter, and think. I want to call Ethan desperately but don't want an interruption in our talk. I have so much to tell him.

Once
again I am traversing unknown territory. My heart is hammering. I reach too often to sip the warm golden liquid in my hand. Inside my head the voices of those different Annes are arguing. Pain streaks across my brow and for a moment, I teeter. Driftwood in an angry wind. I grasp the edge of the table until it passes.

By
the time Miriam and Dee return I can tell that their relationship has changed. They have bonded over their patient's torturous dying. I am left out, though my sister grasps my arm and pulls me close. I watch myself behave with appropriate responses.

"
You must be starving, Anne," she says. "I know I am. Dee, can you stay for dinner?"

I
want to say "Yes, yes, please, I need more information," but the woman is suddenly panicked at the idea of being here so long.

"
Oh, dear, we're having the neighbors over for dinner and I'm late! Tommy will not be happy." She grins, as though the idea of Tommy being annoyed with her is actually ludicrous. "But I will see you tomorrow. And think about next Saturday."

Tomorrow,
I understand, she will start working for us. "Next Saturday?" I ask.

"
I'll tell you all about that," Miriam says. "Goodnight, Dee. Thank you for everything."

Suddenly
the big motherly presence is gone in a flurry of waves and smiles. Miriam turns to the stove, stirs a bit and piles a heap of stew into our bowls. Wordlessly I cut the rest of the bread, pour some white wine for my twin and more scotch for me. We sit at the table facing one another. It's still odd, perhaps always will be, that I am looking at my mirror image. A moving, warm, breathing one.

"
Dee has invited us to a powwow next Saturday," Miriam says between mouthfuls.

I
have noticed that she eats like I do—voraciously.

The
stew is spicy, filled with summer vegetables. Incongruous on such a hot night, but comfort food is what we need. We both slurp and speak with our mouths full.

"
What's a powwow?"

"
It's a celebration, usually native, but this time it's different. They're honoring the anniversary of Vryheid's founding. Dee says they've been working on this event for several years. The native councils and the black organizations and the town councils—everyone is helping. They're advertising it as the biggest community of races in North America. Vryheid meant freedom for natives and blacks, but they intermingled with whites, too, so they want it to be an example of what can happen when people forget about color and creed and try to get along."

Miriam
sounds like a walking advertisement herself. All I need is a reminder that I am not simply half and half. I have roots in a third that up until now I've been able to ignore or discount.

"
Lofty goals," I respond. "What do they do at a powwow?"

"
Dance, play music, parade their traditional costumes. That's about it, I think."

"
And Dee has invited us?"

"
Yes. She thinks she could get Memé a wheelchair and it's supposed to be a gorgeous day. She believes in sunshine as an anecdote for pain. But she'll be able to assess her more closely over the rest of this week and next."

I
say nothing. Concentrate on the food and my amber liquid, unable to clear the fog in my head to articulate any response. I ponder the stuffy death-scented room in which our mother lies. I am inclined to agree with Dee. Surely fresh air and sun couldn't hurt at any rate. But how will she cope with the fact of two daughters? Will she remember what I said to her? Will she somehow convey her abhorrence of me to Miriam, Dembi and Dee? To the hordes at this powwow extravaganza? I shiver in the hot night.

Dembi
comes bustling into the room with Rolly in his arms. He places the cat on the floor in front of its food dish and sits down beside us.

"
Is there dessert?" he asks, eying our empty plates.

Miriam
laughs. "There is dessert, Dembi! Look, I made a pie from the blueberries we picked the other day."

My
sister is a marvel. As we chomp on the fluffy pastry and sweet fruit, Miriam tells Dembi about our new helper, Dee.

"
Now I can come treasure hunting with you."

Both
my brother and I are thrilled.

I
have trouble sleeping tonight. Perhaps it was the late dinner. The scotch? The sound of the rather fierce wind trying to slip through the tree barrier, rustling pine needles, rattling loose bits of the old house? Maybe it's because I couldn't talk to Ethan for more than several seconds. He's deeply involved in that case. It's about to come to a potentially violent conclusion, nothing really unusual for L.A. Maybe I am transferring my fear for Ethan into a general nightmare.

I
get up several times to check the locks on my doors and my window. Does anyone do this for the rest of the house, I wonder? There are so many openings to the darkness. A darkness far deeper than I experience in L.A. Even deeper than Bell Canyon. There are no streetlights. Only the moon and stars cast a very faint sliver of illumination across the lawn and through the trees. Goosebumps prickle my skin despite the warm night. At least my head isn't aching.

Gathering
my courage, I clasp my small travel flashlight, throw on some socks, and prowl through the dark hallways. This house is a maze and I haven't even explored most of it. I keep reminding myself that I have only been here three days, but I feel as though I arrived years ago. In a way, I suppose I did.

The
inside door to my room leads directly into a long wide hallway that eventually opens to the kitchen. A closet and a pantry line the opposite wall. An empty bedroom and the parlor are straight ahead. I turn right. On my left is the living room with the big old television. I turn right again. The halls are narrow, the floors creaky. I have no idea which areas formed the original house and which are newer. Four bedrooms occupy this wing on both sides. Memé's bedroom sits across from Miriam's and next door to Dembi's.

I
slowly open the door and listen to Memé's ragged breathing. Our mother sleeps all night, thanks to some wonder drug and the oxygen canopy. A rush of body odor streams out at me. I shut the door, unwilling to allow the scent of death to follow me up the hall. An empty smaller bedroom and a huge bathroom complete this wing.

I
retrace my steps and find two living spaces on the other side of the house. They are filled with enormous sofas, coffee tables, lamps, bookshelves and footstools. There seems to be little room for people. They are all hulking shadows layered with dust. Remnants of a house that used to be filled with loud, rambunctious, talkative sorts who loved to party.

When
I walk back toward the parlor, where we'd sat and pored over our family Bible, a breeze tickles my ankles. It's sliding in through an open door at the end of the black hallway. I tiptoe along in the dark. My little flashlight sends a tiny spot of light ahead of me, picking up shadows and cobwebs. My heartbeats echo in my head, filling the silence with the pulse of sound. I am terrified but I must shut that door.

Suddenly
a shape appears at the doorstop. I take in a shuddering pre-scream breath before I feel Rolly brush past.
Fucking cat
, I think. Then I recall Dembi's arms curled around the animal's furry body and I have to smile. Once the door is shut and the lock is in place, I feel better.

As
I stand in the darkness I can feel the house around me. Its slight musty odor invades my nostrils, my pores. The drafts scuttle along like cockroaches, under the doors, through the aging seals on the windows. Boards sigh, the creaking joints of an old person. I have a sudden flash of my little girl self. I stand on tiptoes, gazing out the window at a field of tall green stalks. Someone strides toward me. I am terrified.

I
slip-slide frantically back to my room, my feet skating along the hardwood. Chased by an enormous, breathing, grunting fear. It's as though a giant whispers nasty, threatening words in my ear. I am not myself. I am little and weak and incapable of fighting back. When I reach my room I close the door and lean on it, panting. I slide the lock into place.

There
are no other sounds. Nothing moves. I want to run and jump into bed with Miriam. I want Dembi to grin up at me. When my breathing slows, I crawl under the duvet and shiver. I sob into the sheets. I have experienced a memory and the grief wells up from there. I was little in this house. And I was vulnerable.

Dear Diary,

Do
you believe in capital punishment? I mean, the death penalty for say, committing a murder? Some states still use it and lots of countries around the world, too. People used to go and watch hangings. Sometimes I wish they still had that.